


Brother Mine

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Birth, M/M, Mpreg, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5221307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michaela had started off every morning for the past month in the exact same way: </p><p>“Is my brother coming today?” </p><p>Every morning, Sherlock wiped the sleep from his eyes and sank heavily into his chair as he gave her the same answer. “Not today, sweetheart.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother Mine

**Author's Note:**

> I had a bit of a feel, so I wrote it.

Michaela had started off every morning for the past month in the exact same way: 

“Is my brother coming today?” 

Every morning, Sherlock wiped the sleep from his eyes and sank heavily into his chair as he gave her the same answer. “Not today, sweetheart.” 

Michaela was clearly frustrated with this answer. Papa had told her that the baby would be coming soon, and that daddy would know when it was time. But the red circle on the calendar had passed three days ago, and her brother was supposed to be here by now. 

John watched this train of thought run through his daughter’s mind and headed her off before she could start to complain. “Here, love. Let daddy drink his tea and wake up, and you and I will work on breakfast. Okay?” Mich made a grumpy noise but agreed, sliding off her chair and going to join John next to the stove. 

“Brother is supposed to be here now,” she informed John, her arms crossed over her chest. 

“Trust me when I tell you nobody is more aware of that than daddy,” John replied, patting Mich’s shoulder. “He wants your brother to come as much as you do. More, probably.” 

“Definitely,” came the sleepy affirmation from the other side of the kitchen, and John cracked a grin and sent a wink Sherlock’s way. 

“See? Daddy wants your brother to come more than you do, even. Which is really saying something. Want to help me crack the eggs?” he offered, and Michaela nodded and clumsily cracked an egg against the side of the bowl. 

“Why is he late?” she asked, carefully letting the yolk and white drop into the bowl. “Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to be here by now?” 

John sighed and shrugged. “All he knows is that it’s nice and warm and safe inside daddy, and he’s apparently pretty comfortable there. You were late too, you know. By almost a _week._ ” 

“A week?” Mich said incredulously.

“A week,” Sherlock confirmed, pushing his curls out of his eyes and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. His belly rested heavily on his thighs, full and ripe with his and John’s second child. Within him, his son was still, sleeping - though as soon as Sherlock had breakfast, he knew the movement would start again. If nothing else, this baby had established patterns. He rubbed the distended bulge slowly. “I thought you were never going to come, Michie. I was convinced you were going to stay inside me forever.” 

“Wow. I’m glad I didn’t,” she said, eyes wide. John laughed and started stirring the eggs. “When did I come, daddy? Did you have to tell me when I was supposed to come? Did I forget?” 

“Oh, I told you it was time, alright. But you didn’t listen. I should’ve known you’d be like that once you were born, too, mm?” He smiled wanly at his four-year-old daughter. “You waited until the night before I was going to go in for surgery to take you out. The doctors thought you might be too big if you waited much longer. I was laying in bed, worrying, and then you decided it was time to make your appearance, and I got to have you the way I wanted to. At home, with your papa and the midwife.” 

“Are you going to have to have surgery to take brother out?” Mich asked, and Sherlock shook his head. 

“Probably not. He’s not all that late, really, and I know now what it feels like when a baby decides to come. He’ll be here soon, Michie. I can feel it.” He patted his low bump again. 

“I hope he comes soon,” Mich agreed, climbing off her step stool and rounding the table to give her daddy a hug. “I think you want him to. You look tired.” 

Sherlock returned his daughter’s hug gently. “I am tired, sweetheart. Making babies takes a lot of energy.” 

“Which is why we have to keep daddy well-fed,” John chimed in, turning the burner off and scooping eggs out onto a plate. “He’ll need lots of energy when your baby brother decides to come. Which… _is_ going to be soon?” he questioned pointedly, looking at Sherlock.  

The Omega nodded back somberly. “Soon,” he confirmed, taking the plate John offered and pulling it toward himself. “I can feel him deciding,” he said conspiratorially to Michaela, who grinned and bounced a little on her heels. 

“He’s gonna be here soon!” she crowed, clambering onto her chair and taking her breakfast from John. “I can’t wait to meet him. I love him _so much._ ” 

Sherlock smiled at John and wiped a small beaded tear from his lower eyelid. “I love him, too.” 

 

 

John realized that Sherlock’s ‘soon’ might have been even sooner than they realized, as the Omega hauled himself tiredly back to bed as soon as he finished the last of his eggs and toast. He set Michie to work tidying her toys in the sitting room and left the dishes in the sink, following Sherlock to check in. “Hey,” he murmured quietly, his eyes adjusting to the dimmed light. Sherlock had drawn the curtains and closed the door behind himself, and only one lamp was lit, casting the room in an amber glow. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied, holding a hand out for John to take. John climbed into bed opposite his mate and laced their fingers together. “Might’ve lied to Michie. Might not’ve. Could be tomorrow.” 

“But could be today, too?” John asked, and his heart skipped a beat when Sherlock nodded in confirmation. “About damn time,” he laughed breathily, curling up a little closer to his mate. 

“Don’t curse in front of the baby,” Sherlock replied, his voice half-muffled by the pillow. 

“His head’s so far down in your pelvis he couldn’t hear me if I shouted,” John replied amicably, snaking his free hand over to rub over the full, taut bump. “Want me to get you anything? Is your back hurting?” 

“My back always hurts,” Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. “I want to sleep. Feel like I need to.” 

John nodded and pursed his lips in understanding. “You probably need to whether he’s on his way or not,” he reasoned, memories of Sherlock’s first pregnancy flooding back. His labour with Michaela had started somewhat like this, too - Sherlock spent most of the last few days of his pregnancy sleeping, only coming fully awake when the first pangs of labour began to drum at his spine. It was all a rushed blur from there, but this - this was familiar. This, John knew. “Rest, love. Just call if you need me. I’ll bring you in a water.” He leant forward to press his forehead to Sherlock’s, meeting his mate’s tired gaze when his eyes opened. “I love you, Sherlock.” 

“I love you too,” Sherlock replied, kissing John gently and then heaving a long sigh as his eyes slid shut. John took that as a dismissal, and slid off the bed to leave the room quietly. 

 

  

Sherlock slept through lunch, but John woke him at just past two in the afternoon to drink and eat a small sandwich. “Feeling up to a visit?” he asked, helping Sherlock sit up and wincing in sympathy when Sherlock groaned. “Little Miss is worried about you. She’s set up a movie for you, and made you a nest on the sofa.” He smiled and rubbed Sherlock’s thin shoulder. “But if you’re not up for it—“ 

“I can do that,” Sherlock assured, draining the water glass and handing it back to John. “I have a responsibility to Mich as much as I do to the new baby. I can spend time with my daughter.” He sounded determined but weak, and John stopped Sherlock with a hand on his shoulder when he tried to stand. 

“If you need to rest in here, then rest,” he said seriously, locking gazes with Sherlock. “She’ll be sad, but she’ll understand.”

Sherlock drew in a breath and let it out, reaching up to take John’s hand and squeeze it. “I can spend time with my daughter,” he repeated, and murmured his thanks as John pulled him to stand. 

Michaela beamed with happiness when she saw Sherlock coming out of the bedroom, and he offered his daughter a broad smile as he made his slow way to the sofa. “What a marvelous job you’ve done here,” he praised, lowering himself gingerly into the nest Mich had fashioned. 

“I got all my softest things, daddy,” she said proudly, waiting for Sherlock to get comfortable before climbing up and snugging herself against his side. “Papa helped me, ‘cause he knew where you hurt the most. Is it comfy?” she asked eagerly. 

“Oh, very comfy,” Sherlock answered honestly, leaning against the heating pad John had laid on top of the pillows behind his back. “It’s lovely, Mich. Thank you.” He kissed her forehead, then her nose, and Michaela giggled as she squirmed away from the kiss on the lips. 

“Can you play the movie, papa?” their oldest asked, pulling a blanket up over herself and turning those doe eyes on her papa. Sherlock’s arm, slung around her shoulders, sealed John’s fate, and he rose to put the DVD in and get it started playing. 

Michaela had dragged Sherlock and John to theatres four times when Inside Out came out, and it had quickly become her favorite movie - easily surpassing any princess movie or film about dogs that had come out in the past few years. Somehow Mycroft had managed to secure the four-year-old an advance copy of the DVD, which had been played countless times since she unwrapped it with a squeal on her birthday. John had gasped, a bit horrified, when she tore through the card signed by Amy Poehler in her enthusiasm to get to the DVD, but a bit of sellotape did the trick well enough. 

Bing Bong had just finished his last song and was waving a sad goodbye when John was jerked out of the movie’s grasp by a sudden trembling at his side. He looked over and Sherlock was staring straight ahead, focusing on the wall, his chest drawing regular but measured breaths. He fumbled for Sherlock’s hand and wasn’t surprised when the returned grip was like iron. He shushed Sherlock quietly, leaning over to kiss his shoulder through the worn fabric of his t-shirt. “I’ve got you. It’s okay,” he murmured, holding Sherlock’s hand tight. Sherlock nodded stoically, his eyes sliding half-shut as he drew in steady breaths. 

“Good one, eh?” John asked quietly when Sherlocks’ breathing returned to normal. The iron grip on his hand eased, but Sherlock was still shaking a little even though the pain had passed. 

Sherlock’s ‘yes’ was hushed and unsteady, and the arm that had been slung around his daughter’s shoulders moved slowly to his belly. John’s attention shifted easily from the movie to his mate, watching as Sherlock’s hand ran up and down the apex of his middle, spanning the distance from navel to groin and back again. 

Another contraction seized Sherlock’s middle twenty minutes later, and his shifting alerted Michaela this time. “Daddy?” she asked, turning to look at Sherlock’s face as he breathed heavily through the pain. “Daddy, what’s wrong?” 

Sherlock was lost to concentration, so John answered. “The baby’s coming, Michie love,” he said, and Michaela’s expression moved from confusion to joy to worry. 

“He looks like he’s hurting,” she said worriedly, her forehead drawn. “Is it hurting him, papa? Is brother hurting him?” 

John hit pause on the film and the noise in the room quieted. Something in Sherlock’s expression eased. “It hurts him, yeah. It’s not your brother’s fault, though. It happens every time someone has a baby. It just has to happen, like your jabs hurting or like it hurts when you pull a tooth. He’s gonna be okay.” 

Michaela’s expression clouded even further. “Did I hurt daddy?” she asked, her lip wobbling as her gaze flickered between Sherlock’s face and John’s. 

“You did,” Sherlock’s rough voice cut in, but he gathered Mich into his arms and stroked her hair. The pain passed and he let out a huff of air, sagging back against the sofa. “You did, my little love, but it’s alright. I knew it was going to hurt, but I did it because I love you. Don’t feel bad, Michie.” 

“I didn’t wanna hurt you,” Mich said, a little tear gathering in the corner of her eye.

Sherlock sniffled and nodded knowingly, smiling at his daughter. “I know you didn’t. It’s okay, love. It’s like papa said - it had to happen. I hurt for a few hours, and then you were here, and it was all alright. I didn’t mind it, I promise. Pinky swear.” He held up one hand, pinky out, and Michaela extended her own and linked it with Sherlock’s. 

“Sorry, daddy,” she said quietly, and Sherlock shushed her and pulled her close to press a kiss to the crown of her head. 

“I forgive you,” he replied, and Mich visibly relaxed. “Let’s finish the film, love, and then I’m going to have a lie-down while your brother works on coming to meet us.” He kissed her head again and let her settle next to him once more. John pressed play and the screen jumped to life again. 

“I’m proud of you,” John murmured to his mate, kissing his shoulder again as Michaela became absorbed in the film once more. Sherlock made a dismissive noise but leaned a little against John. John let him scoff away the affection, but the way Sherlock fished for his hand and held it tight spoke more volumes than words ever could. 

 

 

When the credits rolled, John left Sherlock and Mich in the sitting room so he could change the sheets on the bed. He laid the paper down, then the rubber mat, and finally put on a set of old, soft sheets that smelled of them even when laundered. Making sure the lights were dim and curtains still drawn, John returned to the sitting room. 

Almost intuitively, Mich had gone ‘round the room pulling the curtains closed, and had turned off the telly to put the flat in dim quiet. Sherlock was doing his best to zone out on the sofa, but the shaking in his hands belied his state. “Got things ready for you,” John murmured, dropping to his knees and running his hand over Sherlock’s softly. “Want to come with me, or stay here?” 

Sherlock cracked one eye open. “Shower?” he asked hopefully, his voice rough. 

“We can do a shower,” John agreed, and left again to turn the water on to get it running hot. He returned and helped Sherlock to his feet. Mich trailed behind them a little uncertainly, watching her daddy stagger toward the loo as papa helped him. “Oh,” John said, catching sight of their daughter. “Erm…Mich, daddy’s gonna take a shower. I need to help him. Do you…d’you want to play with your toys for a bit, or…?” 

“Can I help him too?” she asked, looking at John hopefully. John frowned a little. 

“I don’t think so, love,” he started, but Sherlock cut him off. 

“She can help,” Sherlock said roughly, pushing the bathroom door open and starting to peel off his shirt. “Michie, how do you want to help me?” he asked, sinking down to sit on the closed toilet lid. 

Mich pondered for a moment, humming in concentration. “I can wash your hair,” she said at last. “You wash my hair when I’m sick. You’re not sick, but you don’t feel good. Would that help?” she asked, wringing her little hands. 

Sherlock cracked a smile and Mich grinned back. “You can wash my hair, lovie. Papa will go find me something to sit on in the shower, that way you can reach. That will be very helpful.” 

John smiled and shook his head, raising his eyebrows as he admitted defeat. “Yeah, alright. Pretty sure we still have the shower chair from when you busted your leg. I’ll go dig it out,” he said, patting Mich on the head. 

Sherlock had his daughter leave the room for a minute or two while he stripped off the remainder of his clothes and got seated on the shower chair. He draped a towel over his lap - for propriety, more than anything, as Mich didn’t need to see her daddy completely nude - and then called his daughter back in when he was ready. 

Mich had put on her swimsuit, and Sherlock laughed. “Smart girl,” he said, and beckoned for Mich to join him. John, manning the shower head, gave their daughter the go-ahead to start. 

“Close your eyes,” she instructed Sherlock, and he did, with a smile on his face. John sprayed Sherlock’s hair until it was thoroughly wetted, and when Mich told him to stop, he directed the spray at Sherlock’s back instead. A little moan escaped Sherlock’s lips and he slumped in the chair, tipping his head back. “Keep ‘em closed,” Mich said, pouring soap into Sherlock’s hair and starting to work it around with her little fingers. 

It was like watching a tiny Sherlock work, John thought. The commands she gave to her daddy were precise echoes of the ones Sherlock had been giving her since she was tiny, from baths in the sink to learning how to wash her own hair. Their methods were even similar, like she was imitating the movements of Sherlock’s fingers as he’d done them on her scalp hundreds and hundreds of times. 

John was just rinsing the conditioner from Sherlock’s hair when a moan started to echo off the walls of the shower. It took John a moment to realize it was Sherlock, and he stopped his spraying to grab Sherlock’s hand. Mich, after a split second of indecision, wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s upper body in a loose hug, which Sherlock returned one-armed through the duration of the labour pain. “Got you, daddy,” she murmured quietly, dampened strands of her own hair clinging to Sherlock’s wet skin. 

Sherlock grunted and shifted uncomfortably as the pain tailed off. Mich extracted herself carefully and let John finish washing the conditioner from Sherlock’s hair, holding Sherlock’s hand as he finished up. 

“All done,” John said, turning the shower off and replacing the showerhead. “I’m guessing you want to stand up for a bit, though,” he said, as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest the end of the water flow. “Michie, dry off quick and then go wait in the kitchen, okay? Daddy needs to stand up and let the water help his back for a bit, and he doesn’t want you to see all of that.” 

“Because he’s gonna be naked,” Mich said knowingly, grabbing her towel and wrapping it around herself before leaving the room promptly and closing the door behind herself. 

When John managed to find his words, Sherlock was laughing in his chair, wiping water from his face. “Christ, she’s just like me,” he said, gripping the shower bar to pull himself to stand. 

“God help us all,” John muttered. 

 

 

Sherlock stayed in the shower until the water started to run cold. He wrapped a towel around his waist and another around his shoulders and let John lead him to the bedroom. The contractions he’d experienced while standing up had helped the baby slip lower and lower into his birth canal, and now Sherlock felt as if the baby would fall out if he opened his legs too wide. It was an unpleasant sensation and one he remembered from Mich’s birth - he’d been too scared and out of sorts to realize what he was feeling was impossible, and had nearly made John and the midwife carry him to the bed for fear of the baby girl falling out unhindered. 

This time, he pushed past the illogical feeling and walked slow circuits of the bedroom, his hips aching and grinding. He’d pulled on a pair of yoga trousers to protect his dignity, and they rested low-slung beneath the curve of his belly as he paced back and forth. Mich sat cross-legged on the bed, watching Sherlock walk the distance of their room. 

To John’s surprise, after the initial panic over the pain of labour, Michaela hadn’t seemed fazed or worried by anything Sherlock was experiencing. She slipped off the bed every time Sherlock paused to tremble and moan through a contraction, heading to her daddy’s side and holding his hand. He laid a large hand on her back and pulled her close every time she came near, as if drawing strength from his daughter’s nearness. 

As the sun set and traffic outside started to wane, Sherlock’s labour progressed. He was pacing the living room, now, and held John’s hand tight for support as they made slow circuits. His pains were coming just under six minutes apart, with Mich managing the timer to keep track and report every time Sherlock stopped to quiver and cry out. She held Sherlock’s phone in her little hand and trailed along beside them as they walked. The trio marched slowly around the house, wherever Sherlock decided he needed to be, knowing that with each long contraction, they were coming closer to being a family of four. 

Eventually, the inexorable pull of impending birth led Sherlock back to his bed, where he settled on elbows and knees to keen into a pillow during contractions. The yoga pants were gone, replaced with a sheet, and John knelt behind Sherlock to knead at his hips and lower back in counter pressure to the ache of his muscles. 

Michie let her daddy wail into the pillows without so much as batting an eye. With careful, light fingers, she combed through his curls, training them into the spirals she was familiar with. She patted his shoulder and held his hand, seemingly unfazed by the trance her daddy was in as he worked to deliver her little brother. 

At long last, Sherlock’s thighs glistened with yellow waters that poured from his body. John pushed the sheet up and slid a carefully gloved hand inside Sherlock, and Mich held her daddy’s hand as he keened and whined with discomfort. “It’s okay, papa’s a doctor,” she assured him, patting his hand gently. “He’ll take care of you.” 

“Sherlock?” John said, just loud enough to get his mate’s attention. “He’s ready. You’re ready. Start pushing, love.” 

A long, low moan was all John got in response. Sherlock rolled his hips and arched his back, but there was no tell-tale quivering of thighs, no grunt of effort. “Sherlock?” 

“Daddy,” Michaela murmured, patting Sherlock’s cheek until he turned to look at her, dazed and bleary-eyed. “Daddy, brother’s coming. Papa says you need to push.” Sherlock’s eyes slid back shut. “Push, daddy.” 

“Michie…” Sherlock grunted his daughter’s name and bore down, gritting his teeth. “Aaaah - aaaagh, John, I —“ 

“That’s it, love, he’s coming right along, keep it up,” John praised, tracing around the rim of Sherlock’s opening and watching as he started to spread wide. 

Sherlock’s words turned once again to wails, his whole body shaking with his efforts. The contractions rolled through him, one on top of the other, until all Sherlock could do was heave and shout and shove. “Michie, tell him to keep pushing! Your brother’s head is out,” John said over the noise, guiding the baby’s head out and sweeping a finger around to check for the cord. 

“Daddy! Brother’s head is out, papa says keep pushing! He’s almost here!” she cried, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s sweaty forehead and gripping his hand tight. 

“Michie, Michie,” Sherlock repeated, growling and then roaring as he gave a mighty shove. More yellow liquid rushed from his body and then there was a long pause before a high, reedy wail started to echo in the room. “Oh, god, give me my baby,” Sherlock sobbed, twisting around. Mich helped him sit up carefully, keeping his sheet around his belly and legs, and held his hand while John worked on the slimy bluish thing lying on the bed. 

The baby wailed loudly, his cries deafening in the room. Michaela watched in awe as the tiny thing was placed in Sherlock’s arms, its little hands and feet waving around as it cried and scrunched its eyes up. “Why’s he crying, papa?” she asked, watching as Sherlock sank back against the pillows, tears streaking down his cheeks. 

“Who, your daddy or the baby?” John asked, wiping tears from his own eyes. 

Mich looked over at John and sighed. “Never mind,” she said, climbing back up the bed to settle next to Sherlock. “He’s loud,” she murmured, reaching out with one little finger to touch the new baby’s foot. 

“He’s just letting us know that he’s healthy,” Sherlock said wetly, unable to take his eyes off his son. John passed a damp towel and a clean blanket up, and Sherlock wiped the baby mostly clean and swaddled him with a practiced hand. The little boy started to quiet then, kept warm and held tight by the soft blanket. 

Michaela watched her little brother intently, letting her papa clean daddy up and check them both over. She was about to slide under the blankets and take a nap when Sherlock’s voice, roughened from labour, roused her. “Michie.” 

“Daddy?” she asked, blinking away the sleep that had started to try and pull her under. 

“Michie, you…” Sherlock cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “You were…you will _never_ know how much you helped,” he said, his voice thick. “You were so good, Michie, you helped me so much.” A tear rolled down his cheek and he gave his oldest child a tired but true smile. At the foot of the bed, John wiped away tears of his own as he watched the exchange. 

“You’re welcome,” Michie said simply, and rose up onto her knees to kiss her daddy on the cheek. He pulled her close with a one-armed hug, holding her there as she hugged him back. 

As Sherlock let go and Mich pulled back, she couldn’t stifle a big yawn. “‘M tired, daddy,” she said, sliding down to lay on the pillows next to her daddy. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” 

“Of course, my sweet girl,” Sherlock replied, petting her curls as she slid under the blankets and curled up. “Sleep well, my Michie.” 

“Goodnight, daddy,” she said, her eyes drifting shut. “G’night, papa.” After a pause, during which Sherlock was sure she’d fallen asleep, she spoke once more. “Goodnight, brother.” 


End file.
